


Bridal Suite

by hetalia_smut



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bondage, Dubious Consent, Historical, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, and implied france/spain, england is an asshole, france gets triggered, it's only implied usuk, watch out it gets angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-27
Updated: 2018-04-27
Packaged: 2019-04-28 11:51:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14448693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hetalia_smut/pseuds/hetalia_smut
Summary: For Arthur, Francis was more than willing to rework his weekend plans to do lines of cocaine and get fucked hard. Everyone was subject to these last minute “revisions”, whom were subject to apologetic messages left by the Frenchman while he was being fucked. Naturally, that would lead to arguments with an assortment of lovers, mainly Antonio, over how sincere his apologies are when they are being moaned.





	Bridal Suite

**Author's Note:**

> Arthur's an asshole

_Washington D.C., United States of America_

_Room 207 of the Morrison-Clark House_

_08:25 EST, 20 January 1965_

* * *

 

The strong scent of a breakfast blend filled the room, the sound of a recently used faucet left dripping to what sounded like his far right. It had been a long night, a late afternoon flight had landed him in Washington-Hoover, a quick cab to the Morrison-Clark House, a Victorian-mansion-turned-hotel that accommodated both him and his business associates for Johnson’s Inauguration Day. According to his host, he wasn’t the only visitor with an international invitation; several more nations would be spending the weekend with similar room arrangements. It wasn’t long before Arthur found his room, had him undressed and bound, tied to the antique headboard by his own tie.

For Arthur, Francis was more than willing to rework his weekend plans to do lines of cocaine and get fucked hard. Everyone was subject to these last minute “revisions”, whom were subject to apologetic messages left by the Frenchman while he was being fucked. Naturally, that would lead to arguments with an assortment of lovers, mainly Antonio, over how sincere his apologies are when they are being moaned.

It was far from the first time he’d heard the Brit make tea, however, he found himself listening to every detail. In his mind he went through the process; milk pouring, sugar dissolving, spoon rattling. The normal routine didn’t seem to continue because there was no spoon rattling which meant no sugar dissolving- had Arthur changed his preference? Even when high, he trusted the other blond to make a decent cup with one milk, two sugar. There was simply no way that the Englishman would take his tea, unless out of necessity, any other way. The thought of change made him uneasy and the clear, intentional noise didn’t help with that.

Coarse rope that Arthur had stolen from one of His Royal Navy’s ships bound Francis’s wrists, tying them together in a way that they were secure yet careless, chafing the blond’s captured wrists. The rope extended to the ceiling, where Arthur had installed a simple hook, uncaring about the hotel’s policies; he was tied up enough so he couldn’t stand comfortably, rather rely on the table to steady him. The Frenchman was naked, as he had been for many hours now, and bruises along his hips and arms were most likely starting to show. For a finishing touch, Arthur had wrapped the tie from the previous evening around his eyes, cutting off his vision completely, making him reliant on his other senses.

“This American shit tastes like Spanish wine,” He heard Arthur say after taking what sounded like a sip. “It’s shitty and bland, not worth wasting sugar or milk in.” This confused the naked blond even more, he could’ve swore he had heard the other our milk into the cup. “I don’t know why anyone would bother approaching it at all.” He listened as footsteps drew nearer, stopping close to him to most likely admire him. Gently running a finger over Francis’s lips, the dominant blond commanded “Open up, love.”

Following the other blond’s instructions, the Frenchman tentatively opened his mouth, unsure of what to expect but the strong scent of alcohol gave him some warning. The edge of a cup was carefully pressed up against his bottom lip, hot liquid following close after. Both the heat from the tea and the strength of the alcohol burnt his throat which prompted him to flinch at the unexpected warmth. Despite wanting nothing to do with the concoction, he couldn’t refuse; he’d agreed to give up choice which currently meant he was going to have to drink as much alcoholic tea as Arthur wanted. He made him drink a substantial amount before stopping, the strong taste lingering in the back of his throat as his mind gradually became foggier. The tea seemed to be set aside as his sadist pushed his Rum stained lips against his aggressively, bringing him closer by the back of his head; An action that didn’t set well with the Frenchman seeing it put his hair in jeopardy. “Taste’s like horseshit, doesn’t it?” Arthur mumbled, keeping his lips against his. “I can taste it on you.”

“I’m so glad that you’ve finally found a beverage that tastes the same as you do.” He mocked, all too ready to insult the other because of the hair incident.

The insult resulted in a slap, obviously not the reply Arthur was searching for. Before he had time to give much of a reaction, the Brit grabbed Francis’s face, pulling him closer just to kiss him again, a hint of laughter lost into the kiss. Arthur was rough and domineering, clearly not seeing him as a lover. The Brit pulled away again, to his dissatisfaction; he craved the physical contact that he was forbidden to have. “We’re going to play a game, Bonnefoy. I’m holding two objects: a toy, and a crop. You are going to guess what toy we’ll play with today. If you get it right, you earn a kiss. If you get it wrong, I’ll hit you with the crop. Understand, love?”

“Mhmm,” he agreed, with a nod of his head. He thought for a moment about the possibilities, all interesting. “Is it a gag?” His thoughts went to him being unable to speak and see, only left to feel every bruise and hearing every word of what was going to be done with him. But instead of answering him verbally, Arthur responded by hitting the other’s chest with the riding crop; not terribly hard yet, but still enough to leave a bright red mark. “Try again."

Francis flinched when he was hit, making a small sound of discomfort; apparently he wasn’t being gagged. “A cock ring?” If it was, he’d be at the Englishman’s mercy for who knows how long, being teased and punished as he begged to come. It wouldn’t be the worst morning but apparently it wasn’t planned because he received another blow, this time to the back accompanied by the words “Wrong.”

Biting his lip hard to keep from crying out, he tried to think but the pain mixed with alcohol wouldn’t allow him that privilege. The taste of the rum lingered on his tongue, taking his mind to a beach with Antonio; one of the only things he’d enjoyed while in the Caribbean.  “A Spaniard?” He guessed absently, knowing it wasn’t right but wanting to say something. Not only does he get hit by the crop, but his hair was pulled sharply. “You’re testing my patience, Bonnefoy.”

The hair was off limits, everyone from Portugal to Laos knew that; his hair being pulled was completely off limits. This upset him, they both knew that was one of his few hard limits. Despite this, he attempted to get over it but focusing on his main problem. “How am I supposed to know? I am blindfolded, it’s not like I can see!”

“Shut your whore mouth or I’ll knock your teeth out before the ceremony.” Arthur dropped what sounded like the crop and toy before he felt him untie him wrists, taking a moment to relax them. He, was then, harshly pushed down so he was bent over the table, ass in the air. “If you move, I’m tying you up until you can’t sit straight for a week. Apologize after each hit.” And with that Arthur hit Francis’s ass hard with the crop, coaxing a particularly loud cry from him.

The word “whore” settled and rested on him like an afternoon shadow. There was two things, and only two things, that under no condition would he ever enjoy in sex; his hair being pulled and the use of the term whore. If it was another situation or decade, perhaps he would’ve walked out then and there, but this was 1965 and Arthur. Leaving would cause him much more long term pain, or at least that’s how his drunken mind saw it.

“I’m sorry.” He said softly, still loud enough for the Brit to hear him.

“Be genuine.” Arthur scolded, hitting him twice in a row which got a similar reaction as prior.

“I’m very sorry for talking back.” He said now, tears in his eyes. He enjoyed bondage but it was starting to feel less and less like a scene. It was easy to blame the tears on pain instead of emotional hurt. Because that wasn’t sexy, an image he would try to uphold.

“Good whore.” Arthur continued to hit him, seeming to become more and more satisfied with each apology heard. After some time, there was a pause which he used to get himself together, trying again to ignore the reuse of the word. He was greeted with “Poor doll, crying already? Are you ready to guess again?”

His mind raced for something that would be considered ‘the right answer’ but had trouble coming up with _any_ answer to give. Instead, he decided to go with something basic, an answer that he could give while he thought of something else. “A buttplug?”

“Smart whore.” A gentle slap of the ass the only warning Francis got before the toy was shoved in dry. Biting his lip when the toy entered him, he felt a rush of uncomfortable pain as he stretched around the plug. Normally he’d have welcomed the feeling of something filling him but given the current circumstances, he found it difficult to want anything. “Get on your knees and suck my cock, whore, or I’ll shave your head and leave you on the streets for any bitch to fuck.”

Blowjobs weren’t his favourite sexual act to perform, especially when commanded to do so. He was well know for the quality of oral sex he gave though usually was very particular on when, where, and why it was given. The threat of his head being shaved was enough to override that and anything more that could possibly come, his hair being something that was much more valuable to him than any sense of preference or dignity. Above all he was determined to maintain the image of being appealing and interested despite how wrong it felt, he had to uphold his reputation of attractive and wanton because that’s what _Arthur wanted_. He had to be the better fuck than some younger, inexperienced American boy.

As he pushed himself up from the table, turning around slowly as he became aware of how lost he’d become while being blindfolded; it was ten times more difficult to be sexy when you can’t even see where your lover is. Thankful for them being the same height, he reached out to where the Brit’s chest should be, laying his hand softly against the man before leaning closer, brushing up against the man’s jaw gently with his lips. “Of course, I will do that for you. We both know that I’d much rather have your cock than anyone else’s” He kissed lightly while his other hand felt it’s way down the other blond’s body in hope to gain some sense of where he was while still acting sensual. “Can I please see now? I promise I’ll be good slut for you and take your cock in my mouth how I know you want me to.”

For a moment, his plan seemed to be working until Arthur roughly pushed him away, forcing him down to his knees by the shoulders. “Tell that to Carriedo. At least we can both agree that all you’re good for is cocksucking.” After a pause, Arthur _generously_ offered, “If you can get my cock out with just your mouth, I’ll let you take off the blindfold.”

It took a lot for the Frenchman to keep quiet and stay obedient, he felt he’d done nothing to deserve such treatment. Mentioning Antonio had been a bad idea but the lasting effects of one comment had not occurred to him; being treated like a ragdoll wasn’t the worst thing imaginable but in this situation it had definitely become less than desirable. Despite his efforts in trying to get away from the punishment aspect of their sex, he found the treats still viable, now having more conditions. He looked upward before nodding his head in understanding, wanting to show that he would be completely compliant.

His hands found their way onto the Englishman’s hips before moving under light fabric to make contact with warm skin; their physical contact helped make this more bearable for him. Now that he’d felt out where exactly the other was, he leaned forward, allowing his back to arch in an attractive way as he rested his cheek softly against the man’s hip to make certain he was in the right place. He then began to leave soft, open mouth kisses on the leather fabric that separated his mouth from the other’s cock. Using the tip of his tongue, he followed the line of zipper up to the metal tab which he toyed with for a moment, knowing how the heat of his breath must feel to the blond. Deciding that teasing probably wasn’t in his best interests, he took the metal in between his teeth and dragged it downward until the pants were fully unzipped. He then sat back on his knees obediently, looking upward once more and waiting for Arthur to fulfill his promise.

Arthur moaned softly from the hot breath on his cock, instinctively grabbing France’s hair in appreciation. “Fuck, you’re good at this,” he growled, rolling his hips forward. Finally, the tie was pulled off his face, the two took a moment to admire each other’s eyes before England pushed his cock into Francis’s mouth. “Good slut, you have such a fucking _tight_ mouth, Jesus Christ you little slut.” Soon the Englishman was fucking the his face with no abandon, causing him to gag slightly here and there. “You like this, don’t you? You act like a little bitch so real men will come and fuck you, only my cock can give you satisfaction, little fucking _whore_.” It only took a few minutes before Arthur came, fucking France’s face through the orgasm.

* * *

 

_Washington D.C., United States of America_

_Bridal Suite of the Morrison-Clark House_

_18:19 EST, 20 January 1965_

A bottle of wine had been purchased from the hotel’s gift shop, a 1892 Burgundy that had cost Arthur’s government a pretty penny, but would be well appreciated. A warm bath had been drawn, lavender scented oils added to the bubbly mix, a pale blue silk robe left hanging on the door to be worn. Every spare pillow and blanket in the hotel had been brought to their room, the pillows filled with goose feathers and rose petals, the blankets of fleece and warmly colored. Vases of lilies could be found on every counter or table, varying between white and pink in hue. The curtains had been opened, allowing for natural evening light, nature’s ambience complementing the soft jazz coming from the record player in the corner.

Arthur had calmed down, abstaining from alcohol and any sort of drug for the rest of the day, even declining a cigarette when offered. He now stood at the doorway of the patio, dressed down to just an oversized _The Who_ tee shirt, piercings and makeup removed. He couldn’t get rid of the green chunky highlights, or the tattoo’s that littered his torso, but other than that he looked almost normal again. In his hands was a book, _Madame Bovary_ , hastily found from the French embassy several hours previous.

“I know it’s not _Don Quixote_ , but I thought you might appreciate it anyways,” Arthur spoke, sounding hesitant for the first time in a decade. “It’s in French, but if you’d rather me read it to you in English, or not read it at all, arrangements can be made.” He cleared his throat, refusing to make eye contact with Francis. “I ordered supper, they’re going to bring it up to us soon. I asked for every French dish they know how to make, you can pick and chose between those. I can stay with you if you’d like, or leave. Or I’ll stay outside of your room, whatever you’d like me to do.” He cleared his throat again, fidgeting with the hemline of his shirt.

Immediately, Francis’s face dropped, much to the dismay of the Brit. France wouldn’t even look at him, those violet eyes drifting around the room. “Je pense que vous devriez aller.” he said meekly, sending a knife through Arthur’s heart.

England froze for a moment, not having expected being rejected, but quickly recovered with a scowl. “Right.” He made no move to leave at first, opening his mouth, closing it again, and then taking several steps forward, towards the door. “Do you want the book? I can take it back if you don’t.”

“Je vous appellerai si je veux que vous.” The Frenchman didn’t bother to look at him as he spoke, his tone shaky at best. “Garder le livre.”

“Right.” Arthur repeated, looking at the ground. He did not move for several long seconds, a tension lying heavy in the room. “I’ll call you tomorrow, then. Charge everything to my tab, it’s under Kirkland, and-” he stopped abruptly, all too aware that he was overstaying his welcome. The pity turned to anger, soon translating into spite. “Call Alfred’s number if you need me.” With that he left, the door slammed behind him.

# Translations

Je pense que vous devriez aller - I think you should leave.

Je vous appellerai si je veux que vous - I will call you when I want you.

Garder le livre - Keep the book.


End file.
